


It Was All In My Mind

by ProstheticLoVe



Series: We Take Care Of Each Other [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Established Relationship, Flashbacks to prison, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mickey Milkovich Takes Care of Ian Gallagher, Mickey's POV, Post-Season/Series 10, Protective Mickey Milkovich, has nothing to do with season 11, there is a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProstheticLoVe/pseuds/ProstheticLoVe
Summary: Ian has his first low episode after the wedding. Mickey has to come to terms with the fact that this wasn’t going to be like the past.Or Mickey worries while Ian experiences a low point.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: We Take Care Of Each Other [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993684
Comments: 12
Kudos: 266





	It Was All In My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No one belongs to me! I’m just here to play. 
> 
> Hello, this is the first one shot out of three to wrap up this series. You don't need to read Never Tear Us Apart or the other two one shots in the series to follow what's going on. It can be read as a stand alone fic. This story also is set after season 10, but doesn't touch on season 11. It's set after their first anniversary (after the last chapter of Never Tear Us Apart).
> 
> I know this idea has been done a lot very successfully, but I really wanted to explore the parallels between Mickey and Ian trying to move forward while still being haunted by their past (or one facet of it). I also wanted to explore how Mickey would deal with Ian's bipolar after knowing what could happen and how he might be nervous that it would be like the first time. And I also wanted to explore what Ian's bipolar might have been like in prison, so that's touched on as well. (Disclaimer: I know very little about prison besides what I learned from Orange is the new black, both the book and show, so suspend your disbelief.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Ian’s alarm woke Mickey up, much like it did most days (or really every day). Mickey didn’t even bother setting his alarm anymore. By this point, even though he’d always been a late riser, Ian’s schedule had forced him to wake up earlier.

(Mickey still wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. He got early morning sex, but he was also tired during work.)

6:30 am sharp, Ian’s alarm sprang to life. 

Didn’t matter if it was a Monday or a Saturday. 

Usually, Ian took his pills when he got up, snuggled a little with Mickey, and then he was off to start his day. Mickey would whine and complain about wanting to wake up a little later - at least fucking 7am - but Ian was adamant. He needed to keep his schedule, which made Mickey feel like an asshole for wanting that extra 30 minutes.

So he fucking adapted.

Like he did with most things for Gallagher.

Because he  _ loved him  _ or whatever.

He knew why Ian needed to keep his schedule so strict. It was that incentive that kept Mickey vigilant and his complaining only half-assed. 

(And maybe he didn’t mind being an early riser  _ that much  _ if he got to spend more time with Ian in the mornings before they both started their day.)

When Ian’s alarm began to ring, Mickey shut it off automatically. Like always, he nearly knocked over the framed picture that sat on their bedside table from their wedding. He kept meaning to move it, but a part of him - a large part - liked that it was the last thing he saw when he fell asleep and the first thing he woke up to. Well, that and Ian’s morning wood poking him in the back. And okay, there was also Ian’s hand on his tummy, keeping him close. 

Basically, he was the filling to an Ian Sandwich. 

“You up, Gallagher?” Mickey asked through a yawn.

Ian had rolled away from him sometime in the night and had curled himself in the thick blankets on their bed. Mickey reached through the mass of the comforter they’d splurged on and a few of the heavier blankets since Ian got cold easily. 

Eventually, he found a limb. As his fingers wrapped around what he thought to be an arm, he registered that he was cold to the touch. The residue of sleep that was making his brain foggy dissipated. He unraveled the nest of blankets from around Ian and slid closer, so they were pressed skin to skin.

“Ian?” Mickey whispered against the back of his neck.

He heard Ian let out a long, shuddering breath. He shifted against Mickey, but he didn’t answer. 

_ Was he still sleeping? _

Tiny alarm bells were beginning to spring to life in his head as he tightened his hold on his husband. 

_ Should I be worried? _

_ Was something wrong?  _

_ Was he sick?  _

_ Was he  _ sick? __

Mickey pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. Even that was cold. He made a mental note to find an extra blanket for their bed. 

When Ian still didn’t respond, he began to move away to look over his shoulder to see if he was awake or fucking with him -  _ please be fucking with him _ \- or  _ something else _ entirely.

(Mickey was thinking it was  _ something else _ entirely. And not anything good.)

He peeked over Ian’s pale shoulder to find his eyes still closed, but Mickey could tell he wasn’t quite sleeping. 

(His breathing was too light for that.) 

He was just laying there.

_ Fuck...is this happening right now? _

_ Is this what I think it is? _

“Ian?” Mickey whispered.

Slowly, his green orbs flickered open. Even from his angle, the look in his eyes was uncomfortably familiar. 

They were vacant. 

_ Weary _ .

Like it was taking everything in him just to keep his eyelids open.

Rapidly, it snuck up on him. Ice-cold dread flowed through his body, like he’d just fallen into a frozen river. 

He wasn’t ready for this. For a moment, he was motionless. Gazing up at Ian’s face as if waiting for him to confirm what he already knew. He bet he looked fucking insane. 

_ Not now. _

_ Not yet. _

He remembered seeing that look so long ago during Ian’s first depressive episode. Then again after a month into their stint in prison. It was there, as if it had always been there, biding its time until they were - almost - content and everything was perfect.

Of course, it would happen now.

Mickey should’ve seen it coming.

It was the other shoe dropping.

Initially, back around Thanksgiving, Mickey began to see warning signs in Ian. When he didn’t get up early and when he was a little more moody, Mickey had begun to prepare. He assumed he was depressed. He thought they were going to have to saddle up for a rough few weeks while Ian’s meds balanced out. 

He was ready  _ then _ . 

He’d been looking for the signs and waiting until it was the right time to step in. But there was no need. 

It was a false alarm.

Stupidly, Mickey had thought that maybe -  _ maybe _ everything would be okay for a little longer. 

Looking back on all of it, Mickey had been so thankful that it was nothing to worry about. Because for just a little longer, they didn’t have to deal with one more shitstorm. They could continue living in the warm little bubble they’d created around themselves.

All they had to deal with was family drama, money issues, and the occasional Frank appearance. 

No fucking sweat.

But as ready as Mickey had been during those days of remembering Monica, he didn’t see this one coming.

The rug had been pulled out from under him.

He fucking hated feeling like that.

(It happened every time.)

Mickey bit his lip as the familiar stirrings of panic began to fill his belly. He took a deep breath in and slowly let it out. 

Ian had closed his eyes again, unaware of the inner turmoil that was dancing through Mickey’s body.

He could handle this.

He  _ had _ handled this before.

It would be fine. 

He ignored the little voice in his head pointing out how now was not the time to panic. He needed to keep a level head.

For Ian.

_ Call the clinic. _

_ Call Lip? _

_ What did we have to do today? _

_ Fuck...apartment hunting. _

They could put that off. 

No big deal.

It had been his husband’s idea to start looking for places and Mickey had agreed because, well, it was hard to say ‘no’ to an excited Ian.

And now here they were. Right on the cusp of something - something that could get bad if they didn’t handle it properly. 

At least, going off of past episodes. 

Mickey was glad he was dealing with it in a familiar place this time. The Gallagher household provided them both comfort because it was - well, it was  _ their _ home. It wasn’t like in prison when Ian was readjusting to his meds and ended up staying in bed for like two weeks. Mickey hated how he couldn’t even offer him comfort since the guards were always lingering - thinking Ian was going to go homicidal. 

Or suicidal.

He shivered involuntarily.

“Okay,” Mickey said quietly. He pressed a kiss to Ian’s shoulder, wrapped him back up in the fluffy blanket - making sure to tuck his feet inside since they got so cold - and headed downstairs.

Mercifully, it was still too early for anyone else to be up, so Mickey - like he did every morning - began to go through his routine. Of course, Ian was usually with him bouncing around and making coffee or eggs or some shit. 

_ Don’t think about that right now. _

Mickey put on a pot of coffee and made some toast. Carefully, he focused on each task. There was nothing to worry about; they’d get through this too. He was going to remain calm. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. Maybe he was just blowing things out of proportion. Ian might just be tired. 

Mickey grasped on to that thought with both hands and held tight. 

He finished buttering the toast and grabbed a Gatorade out of the fridge for Ian. Shoving the blue drink into the pocket of his sweatpants - they were really Ian’s, but he’d cut the legs to fit him easier - he balanced his coffee and the four pieces of toast as he headed back upstairs. 

Quietly, he came back into the room and set the plate and mug on their bedside table. He picked up the three pill bottles and the Gatorade and crawled back into bed beside him. Ian was still facing the wall and made no move to signal that he knew Mickey was back.

“Ian?”

Mickey waited for some reaction out of him. He tried to keep a hold on the emotions that were beginning to fog the logical parts of his brain.

He wanted to grab him and shake him.

He wanted to turn him over.

He wanted to scream at him.

But he knew this game.

He knew how it was played. 

Patience was the key.

Understanding too.

And fucking  _ love _ .

_ Everything would be fine. _

When Ian still didn’t say anything, Mickey tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. He caressed the soft skin and before his eyes, Ian’s shoulders drooped as if this was what he was waiting for. 

Mickey hoped this is what he wanted. 

He could usually read Ian so clearly, but right now, his own trepidation was making him second guess everything he knew Ian liked. 

Once after the wedding when it was the middle of the night and they’d just finished banging - Mickey would never call it  _ making love,  _ but maybe that’s what it had been that time - he had asked Ian what it was like during his down episodes. It was a question he’d wondered for a long time. He just never knew how to ask it. But after this particular moment, he’d felt even closer to Ian than usual (cause getting fucked up the ass by the guy wasn’t apparently close enough) and he wanted something to feel like - like he was the only person in the entire world who ever truly knew him. Who could ever truly know him.

Ian had said it was like swimming through quicksand. Everything felt heavy and breathing properly was a fucking issue. He needed something steady to hold on to, something to ground him. He said holding Mickey’s hand helped him finally break the surface. And Mickey had pocketed that information away.

For times like now, apparently. 

“Do you - do you want to try and roll over? Try to take your pills?” Mickey asked quietly.

Ian didn’t move.

Mickey wasn’t even sure if he heard him.

“Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?” 

Patiently, he waited for a response. 

At first, Mickey wasn’t sure if he was going to respond, but ever so slowly, Ian rolled onto his back and then turned into Mickey. Cuddling against his leg, Mickey heard a little sigh and he closed his eyes again.

Mickey looked down at the pills in his lap and the Gatorade. The toast was growing cold on the bedside table, so Mickey decided to pick it up and begin to eat a piece. He ran his hand through Ian’s hair and waited to see if he’d react, but instead, he seemed to have drifted back to sleep. 

He was grabbing Mickey’s leg like it was a life line.

Something to hold him steady.

Mickey’s heart leapt at the gesture.

After finishing his toast, Mickey picked up his cell phone and dialed first the clinic and then the four apartment buildings they were scheduled to meet with today. 

* * *

They had a plan. 

Well, Ian had made the plan and Mickey had agreed to it because he was so excited to be going apartment hunting as husbands. Mickey thought it was too soon to be moving out, but he wasn’t going to voice his concerns to Ian. He didn’t get what the rush was to leave a house where they paid a very low rent and had a lot more room than they’d get anywhere else. Yeah, they had to deal with people coming and going at all hours of the day and night, but it was  _ familiar _ . 

Mickey knew what to expect.

He  _ liked _ living in the Gallagher house.

He’d always liked living in the Gallagher house. Whether it was when he was there to escape Svetlana and the crying baby or when he was getting out of prison and climbing through a window back to Ian, it had always felt more like home than his own house. 

_ Probably cause Ian was there. _

The first time Mickey had visited the Gallagher house was when he and Ian had first started fucking. Well, really visited it. There was a time when he came over to get a paper for English from Lip, but Mickey didn’t count that. 

That first time, Mickey had looked around the living room, soaking in all the details. He saw the pictures of the Gallaghers all on the fireplace mantel and the evidence of pure sibling-love that radiated from each room. There were toys everywhere, holes in the wall, and stains on the furniture, but it was  _ warm. _ He could tell that the people who lived in this house actually gave a shit about each other.

It was a far cry from the indifference and chilliness of his own home. 

Sometimes, when he’d had a particularly bad week or Terry was being a fucking dick, Mickey suggested fucking at Ian’s, if no one was around. He wanted to feel that love and acceptance that Ian felt every day. 

That Ian took advantage of. 

And now he lived here.

He didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Living in the house was okay. He’d be fine not having to watch Franny or Fred and even sometimes Liam all the time, but they weren’t that bad. (Franny was funny and Fred was a good sleeper. Plus, Liam was smart as fuck.) Debbie and Sandy could keep it down more, but Mickey knew Ian and him were pretty loud too. And even with Carl becoming a cop, it was - well, it was weird. He still saw Carl as that chubby faced kid who was dealing weed on the street corner.

Overall, Mickey didn’t mind living in the Gallagher house.

Slowly, over the last few months, Ian started to drop hints about wanting to move out. Mickey figured out pretty quickly what was coming.

Although, he did try to play dumb to prolong the discussion. 

(He just really liked seeing Ian excited about something. He wanted it to last a little longer. Fucking sue him.)

A few weeks prior Ian had sat Mickey down and said, “what do you think about moving?”

“Moving?” Mickey had asked.

Ian nodded eagerly and stared at him with those big green eyes. Mickey had the feeling he was waiting for him to agree that they should move out or that he was tired of living in the Gallagher house. 

And maybe he  _ was _ tired of hearing people in the kitchen at the asscrack of dawn - mostly that was Ian though after Lip and his baby mama moved out - and while he was happy for Carl to be moving up as a police officer - honestly, what the fuck - he wasn’t really excited about living in the same house as one.

Those were his only real complaints.

But he also could understand why Ian was so excited about moving.

A part of him - a small hopeful part that had started to take shape when they lived together the first time - was looking forward to having a home of their own. 

A place that showed how permanent they were.

Sometimes Mickey woke up and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that he and Gallagher were  _ fucking married _ . 

Like legally married.

Not ghetto married.

Not prison married.

Actually,  _ fucking married _ .

And yeah, neither of them had any idea of what they were doing, but they were  _ together _ \- permanently, forever - and that’s all Mickey really wanted in the end.

So if he wasn’t crazy about moving out, but Ian was, then that was just something he’d have to deal with.

He’d go wherever Ian wanted him to.

Sure, it would be more money and they’d have to take on more responsibilities and shit, but they would have their own space.

And maybe Mickey would stop waiting for Ian to decide that he didn’t want this anymore. That they’d made a mistake getting married.

Today was supposed to be their first day looking at apartments. They’d called up some landlords that were renting cheap and not too far away. One was in the South Loop. There was a duplex on South Ashland and then they were looking near Homan Square and Mckinley Park. They got some decent prices. But it was nowhere near splitting the $700 a month plus utilities with the other Gallaghers.

Mickey stared down at the empty coffee mug he’d downed while sitting in bed with Ian who was still sleeping. He’d tried to offer support, but all he’d ended up doing was running his hand through Ian’s curling hair. Somehow he’d managed to wiggle out from Ian and go downstairs. 

He’d scheduled an appointment for Ian as soon as he could get him in - two fucking days,  _ seriously _ ? - and called the landlords - two of them were assholes - and then he’d popped open a beer, stared at it, and decided to put it back in the fridge. 

Instead, he paced the kitchen for a few minutes weighing his options of what to do. The house was quiet. Either everyone was still sleeping or they were out. 

Mickey was glad he didn’t have to deal with anyone while he tried to figure out a plan. Something that hadn’t always been his strongest trait. Not without nagging him or pushing Ian’s expectations on him. Or without Larry who was always proposing new and ‘fun’ ways for him to abide by the law.

(Albeit, Larry’s ideas weren’t always that bad.)

He did what he was supposed to when he knew that Ian’s pills weren’t working - and they were his pills, he saw Ian take them consistently. But besides calling the clinic and canceling their plans, he wasn’t sure what to do.

The last time - and that time in prison - he’d just waited it out.

But for some reason, he had this strange nervous energy running through him. Like he was supposed to do something. Like he needed to be the one to get Ian back on track. Instead of letting the pills and Ian’s body run its course.

Taking out his cell phone, Mickey tapped it on the counter as he debated his options. Since the house was empty, he couldn’t very well ‘stumble’ upon someone to ask them what he should do or if he should even do anything. He actually had to reach out to someone for fucking help. Or he could just wait it out.

_ Fuck _ .

What was he supposed to do?

The phone was ringing before Mickey realized that he had unlocked it.

“What do you want?” 

“And good morning to you too, Phillip.”

He heard Lip yawn in response and Mickey thumbed at the area above his lip as he struggled to figure out how to tell his brother in-law about Ian.

“I repeat, what do you want?” Lip asked when Mickey didn’t immediately say anything.

“It’s Ian…” Mickey began. His entire finger was being nibbled on at this point. His stomach was squirming in discomfort. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was one thing to see it, but another thing to say it outloud.

“What--”

“His meds. They’re - he’s having a low...episode. I’m not - I mean, I called the clinic or whatever, but like…” Mickey trailed off and hoped that Lip was smart enough to cotton on to what he was saying.

Lip was quiet for a few minutes and then he sighed. “You called the clinic?”

“Just fucking said that, didn’t I?” Mickey snapped.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing. Sleeping. I tried to - I tried to get him to - he’s not doing anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Just wait it out.”

“What do you mean? Wait it out? Should I like try to get him out of bed or - or--”

“He’ll get up eventually. Just keep bringing him food, watch him, bring him liquids. There’s not much else you can do.”

Mickey scowled, “what if it’s like - like last time? What do I do then?”

“Last time? Like the Gay Jesus shit? He’s not man--”

“No. The first time. When he spent three weeks in fucking bed.”

The other end of the line was quiet and Mickey gritted his teeth as he waited for the supposedly smart Gallagher to give some kind of answer.

“Mickey, how was he before?”

“He was fine. Maybe a little tired lately, but nothing - nothing to worry about.”

“Then don’t worry. Just watch him. Take him to the clinic. They’ll balance out the meds. It’ll be fine.”

Mickey looked toward the stairs as Lip’s words sank in. He was just supposed to wait it out? That’s what he’d done last time but...they were married now. Shouldn’t he - shouldn’t he do something more? 

“Mick, listen, it’s not like last time. He’ll be fine. Call me if you need any help.”

The line went dead.

Slowly, Mickey put his phone on the counter as he considered Lip’s words. 

_ It’s not like last time. _

Mickey never said it  _ was _ like last time. He was just... It was just - this wasn’t supposed to be happening. They had a plan today and Ian was the one who was so excited to go and Mickey hadn’t dealt with this in awhile and what the fuck was up with Lip’s advice?

When Ian was more himself, Mickey was going to tell him how shitty Lip’s advice was - cause this waiting around shit wasn’t going to do.

Mickey ran a hand through his hair. On an impulse, he grabbed the beer he’d opened early from the fridge. He gulped down as much of it as he could before he needed air and then placed it on the counter. 

Spotting his discarded phone, he picked it up and Googled ‘what to do when someone is having a depressive episode.’ The results were in the millions, so he grabbed his beer and leaned against the counter as he began to read the first article.

* * *

Sometimes Mickey thought he was fucking insane. 

(He had to be, to go back to a guy who’d dumped him, right?)

(Or maybe he and Ian were just the right amount of crazy for each other. Yeah, Mickey liked that one.)

Crazy the way Ian always thought he was.

(Which Mickey didn’t think he was, but that was a whole other thing.)

What normal person got themselves thrown back into prison just to get back together with a guy who he hadn’t seen in like two fucking years?

_ Someone who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. _

Remembering Mexico is what kept him grounded.

Remembering the way he felt, more specifically.

It was a reminder that he wasn’t crazy. There was nothing insane about giving up a life as a fugitive to be with the man he - he  _ loved _ .

It was fucking lonely being in a strange country all alone.

Sure, he  _ eventually _ made friends.

He fucked a lot of guys.

He drank more tequila than water. 

He smoked a lot of pot.

Did some bomb ass coke.

But at the end of the night, he always ended up in the same place: staring up at the sky wondering if Gallagher was as lonely as he was.

In the beginning, his bed was a beach and his blanket was the starry night sky. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly morose, he’d pretend that Ian was looking up at the same inky darkness as him. Seeing the same moon and twinkly stars; wondering about him. Corny as fuck, but it made him feel a little better. 

But as much as he wished and hoped and prayed that one day he’d find him again, he knew that life was not a fairytale.

It was dark and twisted and depressing.

He wasn’t the type to get a happy ending anyway. 

_ Fucked for life, after all. _

Finding out that Ian was in prison - or going to prison - that opened a door of possibilities he never thought he’d have access to. 

Coming back to Ian had been a major part in getting out of Mexico.

But it wasn’t the only reason he rolled on the cartel.

He missed good American burgers. He missed the cloudiness on a cold Chicago day. He missed the fucking snow.

But the biggest reason of all was that he was lonely.

So lonely, he’d even tattooed evidence of his hometown on his arm to remember.

It brought him that same woebegone rumble in his stomach that seeing ‘Ian Galager’ on his chest did.

While in Mexico, he sometimes thought he romanticized his relationship with Ian. Made it better than it actually ever was. He kept telling himself that Gallagher was just another guy. He was just another  _ warm mouth; just another hot piece of ass.  _

But Mickey wasn’t dumb.

He was just… he  _ missed _ Ian. 

He couldn’t deny that.

It got to the point where he was tired of denying it.

He’d been looking for an out anyway and when that dumbass college kid came to buy drugs from him with Ian’s face on his shirt.

It was a fucking sign.

If he was a more romantic person, he might even say it was  _ serendipitous _ .

The moment he saw Ian Gallagher - with dyed black hair, but still him - he felt all of the anxiety that had been mounting since he’d turned himself over to border patrol dissipate. It was like a dam had been released. He knew that while their relationship hadn’t been sunshine and roses, Ian was  _ it _ .

He was his constant.

All of the anger and loneliness and frustration he’d worn on his sleeve for the past two-ish years disappeared - for a little while, at least.

But that didn’t take away all of the shitty stuff they had to contend with.

Mickey didn’t know what he hated more; Manic Ian or Depressed Ian. 

Maybe a part of him had forgotten how difficult Ian could be to live with - he nagged so much and wanted everything to be  _ so _ clean - but worse of all, while he hadn’t forgotten that Ian was bipolar, he did forget how much it hurt him to see Ian withdrawing from life - from himself.

Mickey hated to see the light in his eyes disappear. He hated to see his complexion sallow. He hated to see how vacant he looked when he was going through a down period. 

He forgot that until Ian didn’t get out of bed a month into their time at Beckman Correction Center.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mickey was used to waking up to Ian’s morning wood. It was a good way to start the day. Especially when they were in fucking prison and very little things brought them joy.

Ian would crawl into his bed once it was clear and they’d get in a quick fuck before they both went to breakfast. It wasn’t ideal - especially with the mayo they had to use as fucking lube - but it was the best they could do. 

The first clue that something was off was when Mickey woke up, Ian wasn’t in bed with him. He turned around almost thinking that there would be a guard in the window of their cell watching them to make sure no funny business was going on, but instead, it was empty. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the bed above him.

_ Did Ian leave? _

_ Was there an emergency in the infirmary? _

That had happened a few weeks ago. Ian had to go stitch up some guy who’d tried to slit his wrists. 

When he got out of bed, he half expected Ian’s bed to be empty. Instead, there he was curled up in his blankets facing the wall.

“Ian? You up?” Mickey asked. He reached out a hand to gently shake him. Even before he touched him, he somehow knew that this was like that winter when Ian’s bipolar started to manifest itself.

A shiver ran through him at the memory.

“You okay?” Mickey asked. 

He hoped that the edge of panic couldn’t be heard in his voice.

When Ian didn’t say anything, Mickey ran a hand through his hair and quickly leaned in to kiss his shoulder. He lingered for a few minutes as he hesitated on what to do next.

He was tempted to turn him over to face him. 

_ I just need to see his face to make sure he’s okay. _

He wanted him to get out of bed, so they could go about their usual routine.

_ Everything was fine. _

He didn’t want to deal with Ian depressed in prison.

_ Please, any other time but right now. _

But when he signed up to get himself thrown back in prison to be with him, well, he was resolving himself to be okay with this too.

It was just… 

They were in a shitty place. Mickey knew what it was like to feel helpless in here. Even for guys who didn’t have mental problems, prison could be fucking  _ rough _ . He didn’t want that for Ian. He didn’t want any of this for Ian. 

But here they were.

They just had to make the most of it.

That would be hard to get through to Ian if it was going to be like last time.

Before, it had been three weeks to get Ian out of bed. And when he finally did get out of bed, Mickey had to help him bath himself. He had to encourage him to eat. He had to help him walk outside for some fresh air. He couldn’t do any of that here.

He couldn’t watch him here.

He couldn’t even make sure he was safe here.

Maybe from the other inmates, but not from the guards.

He gave him one last lingering look and headed for the door to see if there were any guards walking past. When he didn’t see any, he quickly got dressed and poked his head out of the door to wave one down.

Luckily, he got one of the few nice guards on duty.

“Morning, Milkovich,” he said.

Mickey tried not to scowl at the jolly tone.

“Gallagher’s meds are fucked up.”

The guard frowned and looked over Mickey’s shoulder to see the lump formerly named Ian. 

“Sure he’s not just sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

The guard pushed past Mickey and poked Ian’s back with his baton. Mickey flinched and tightened his arms across his chest as he watched the exchange. He dug his fingernails into his arms, so he didn’t lung forward and start beating the guard with the baton.

He fucking hated this.

“I’ll get the psychiatrist. Go to breakfast, Milkovich,” the guard said.

Mickey stood there for a moment and looked back and forth between them. On the one hand, he didn’t want to leave Ian alone. On the other, he was going to get in trouble if he didn’t head to breakfast and then work. 

The guard frowned at him and then nodded toward the door.

“Go on. He’ll be fine.”

Mickey hesitated and then reluctantly left the room. He cast one last look at Ian; hoping, wishing that he was going to get up. He saw his body shudder when the walkie on the guard crackled and Mickey had to force himself to take the remaining steps out of the cell.

Even when he was finally outside and in the hallway, he looked in through the little window to see the guard leaning against the wall and texting on his phone.

Anger rushed through him and Mickey almost headed back into the cell to tell the guard to leave so he could watch over him.

But he didn’t want to end up in solitary.

He wished he could do more.

He wished they weren’t in prison.

He wished he wasn’t so useless.

He wished he could offer some support.

But his biggest wish, the one that was overwhelming him as the days ticked by and Ian stayed in bed, was that he could stay with him until he was okay again.

* * *

Mickey hovered outside of their bedroom. The tips of his fingers rested on the panels of wood on the door. All he needed to do was push the door slightly and step in to check on Ian. However, his body wasn’t doing what he wanted. Hesitation coursed through him as images of a blank faced Ian laying in bed staring at the wall manifested in his mind’s eye. 

It was like he was back in his old house with Ian refusing to get out of bed. 

Refusing to talk to him. 

Refusing to eat. 

It had taken weeks for Ian to get back to his normal self that time. 

In prison, it was 12 days.

How many weeks this time?

After the first time, Ian continued to deny it like it was no big deal to be so tired that he couldn’t get out of bed. Like it was normal. 

For years, Mickey replayed that time in his head.

_ “I’m fine, Mick. I was just withdrawing from all the drugs from the club. It won’t happen again.” _

Mickey wanted to believe him so much. 

He  _ had _ believed him.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he finally accepted that something was wrong, but it was before he came home to suitcases peeking out of every nook-and-cranny of the house and sometime after Ian tried to slice and dice Mandy’s boyfriend - if there weren’t so many witness and if it wasn’t  _ Ian _ , he probably would’ve let him do it. 

“What are you doing?”

Mickey snapped out of his thoughts to find Debbie standing in the hallway beside him. Franny was on her hip and her eyebrow was arched as if she’d been watching him for awhile.

“The fuck does it look like?” Mickey said leading her away from the door so that Ian wouldn’t overhear them.

He knew he needed his sleep and maybe a small part of Mickey didn’t want him to overhear whatever conversation was about to occur between them.

“That’s why I’m asking, Mickey,” Debbie said following him without much coaxing.

He eyed her when they got further down the hall by the stairs to the kitchen.

“Is Ian--”

“He’s fine.”

Debbie looked down at Franny who was looking back and forth between them.

“When Monica used to get like that, I remember Frank--”

“Oh God, not this shit again. You already gave me a speech like this years ago.”

Debbie perked up and grinned at him, “you remember that?”

“Kinda hard to forget a nine year old giving you unsolicited advice. And asking for a hook up for drugs.”

Debbie looked at him fondly. “Yeah, shit was pretty bad back then. Ian was spiraling. Fiona was spiraling. Lip was about to spiral…” she sighed almost reminiscently and then looked at Franny. “I’m glad things got better.”

Mickey snorted and walked downstairs. He was suddenly craving a cigarette and a beer.

“Did you call the clinic?”

Mickey nearly glared at her. Instead tersely, he said, ‘yes.’ 

“He’ll be fine. Just gotta wait it out,” she paused. “You’re the only one he ever listened to when he’s like this, you know.”

Mickey turned to face her. She was readjusting Franny on her hip and wasn’t paying attention to him.

“I feel like I should be doing more.”

Debbie looked up at him in surprise and then gave a little one shoulder shrug. “I know.”

Mickey had expected her to give him some more unwanted advice, but instead, she turned back to Franny and began to talk to her. Mickey tuned them out as he headed toward the fridge and grabbed a second beer. He decided to head outside to smoke a cigarette.

_ Then I’ll check on him. _

“It’s not going to be like last time, you know,” Debbie said suddenly.

Mickey glanced over at her to find her watching him. She’d put Franny down who had run to grab her coat. She was giving him that look she’d given him so many years ago when she confronted him about going to see Ian after he got out of the psych ward.

“How do you know that?” Mickey heard himself ask.

Debbie smirked, “because he’s got you.”

Franny came back in then and Debbie helped her put on her coat. He heard her say something about going to meet Sandy for a movie, but Mickey kept thinking about those four words.

_ Because he’s got you. _

_ Because he’s got you. _

_ Because he’s got you. _

Mickey was around the first time Ian was going through a down period. He was there in prison too. He didn’t feel like he’d done much. In fact, he thought he’d done very little. He’d just... _ fuck _ ,  _ he was useless _ .

Mickey glanced upstairs hesitantly. He put down the half-drank beer and the unlit cigarette and headed back upstairs.

He just wanted to check - make sure he was still there.

He took the stairs two at a time. He was in front of their bedroom door in seconds and yet, Mickey found himself with his hand pressed on the wood again. Willing himself to push it open enough to take a peek at Ian. 

Logically, he knows that this would pass. 

He  _ knew _ this.

But he also knew that it could very easily turn  _ bad _ .

Stealing a baby bad.

Doing pornos bad.

Trying to murder people bad.

He hadn’t been much help in prison when Ian’s meds were all fucked up. He’d had to go about his usual schedule and every day he’d return to the cell to find Ian curled up in a little ball. Sometimes he’d talk to him and others times he’d remain silent. Mickey tried to fill the gapping silences in their cell until he was all talked out. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly shitty, he’d re-start the conversation from the beginning, just to have something to say. 

The psychiatrist would come visit their cell and administer Ian his meds. He’d always be cheerily talking to him as if what was happening was all in their heads.

Every day he’d tell Mickey that he was getting better. As if he could clearly see the worry in his eyes. 

But Mickey only believed him when he finally saw Ian smile again.

Albeit tiredly.

But it was still there.

Finally, with the image of Ian’s tiny, tired smile in his head, he pushed the door open. The room was dark like it was night. Mickey had pulled the curtains closed before he’d left the bedroom. He had to blink a few times to adjust to the sudden lighting change. Through the darkness of the room, Mickey could make out the lump in the center of the bed. 

The toast he’d left for him still sat there from earlier, but Mickey was happy to note that it was only the crusts and all of the water and Gatorade was gone too. He sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his leg over the blanket. Gently, he shook Ian’s leg a little to alert him that he was there.

“Ian? How are you feeling?”

There was a shuffling from the bed and a hand peeked out from the bundle of blankets wrapped around Ian. Mickey didn’t even have to think twice before moving to grab it, even if he had to crawl across the mattress and make sure not to put any weight on him.

Ian’s fingers were cold in his hand. 

Mickey leaned back slightly to readjust his position, so both of his hands could clasp Ian’s hand. He felt Ian squeeze his fingers. 

A rush of love flowed through Mickey at the gesture. He kicked off his shoes and climbed over the blankets that buried Ian. He was careful to keep their hands clasped and he settled on Ian’s side of the bed since he had rolled onto Mickey’s. 

Once he was more comfortable, he burrowed under the blankets and scooted closer to Ian. With one hand, he unwrapped the blankets so he could see Ian’s face. He was unsurprised to find him watching him, his eyes wide and nervous.

Mickey opened his mouth. The start of a snarky joke on the tip of his tongue, but when he saw Ian’s shiny eyes and the tear tracks, he bit his lip and reached out one of his hands to rest on his cheek. The tear tracks were still fresh, so Mickey wiped them away.

“You okay, Gallagher?” Mickey asked softly.

Ian snuffled and his eyes darted upward probably to avoid Mickey’s. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Mickey could hear the scratchiness of disuse in his voice. He considered leaving to go refill Ian’s glass of water, but he didn’t want to get up.

“How do you feel?” Mickey asked, ignoring Ian’s apology.

He shifted a little and Mickey took that as a shrug.

“Made you an appointment at the clinic. We’ll go on Tuesday.”

“Gotta--”

“We’re going to the clinic at 4 on Tuesday.” Mickey didn’t mean to sound so final when he said it, but long ago memories of Ian telling him he didn’t need to go to the clinic were resurfacing. Just like the ones of Ian telling him he was just withdrawing from the drugs at the club. 

_ It won’t happen again. _

Ian stared at him and Mickey tightened his grip on his hand.

“I called the landlords too. Not a big deal,” Mickey said. He hoped he sounded more gentle this time around.

A glimmer of a smile appeared on Ian’s lips, but it was gone before Mickey could properly spot it.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispered again.

The voice he was using reminded Mickey of the first time when it was winter and they still lived in the Milkovich household. All he’d say was ‘sorry’ and it was always in that tiny voice. 

That defeated tone. 

Like he’d given up. 

Lost hope in a future.

Their future. 

Mickey remembered how fucking  _ empty _ he felt hearing that little ‘I’m sorry’ every time he check on him. Like he was a broken record. He’d thought that once he came out, everything would be peaches and cream. They’d live together and be together and everything would be perfect.

No more hurdles once he came out.

_ What a fucking joke. _

“It’s fine, Ian. Just - I’m here.” 

Ian blinked slowly and Mickey figured he was on the verge of falling back to sleep. Instead, he shuffled a little closer. He moved a little further down the bed and nestled into Mickey’s chest. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but Mickey wasn’t complaining. Not when he had Ian in his arms and practically on top of his chest. He could hear him breathing and Mickey counted every breath as he exhaled. It was soothing. Slowly, the two of them fell asleep.

* * *

The room was still dark when Mickey woke up and he wasn’t sure whether it was night or still day. He blinked as he tried to clear away the remnants of sleep and adjust to the lighting in the room. 

His arms were draped around Ian and sometime while they were sleeping Mickey had turned into the big spoon and Ian into the little one. He gently picked up Ian’s arm and looked at his watch. 

_ 12:05  _

_ Shit _ .

Gently, Mickey began to untangle himself from Ian and crawl out of the bed to get some more water for him and relieve his bladder. He wanted to brush his teeth too and maybe bring some crackers upstairs in case Ian got hungry. However, as he began to move out of bed, Ian let out a little ‘no.’

“Where are you going?” Ian asked.

Mickey couldn’t help but smile at the vulnerability lacing his voice.

“I’ll be right back, sleepy-face. Bathroom.”

Ian let out a little hmph and Mickey continued to get out of bed. He grabbed the discarded plate and glass to bring downstairs. Stopping in the bathroom, then the kitchen, he pulled out a few kind bars, a box of crackers, another Gatorade, and filled up the glass of water. 

He was almost half expecting someone to be hanging around the kitchen at this time of night, but since Lip and Fiona didn’t live here anymore, there were a lot less people milling about at night. It probably helped that Carl was now working nights and Debbie was always off doing whatever it was she did.

Re-entering their bedroom, Mickey set down the food and drinks on the bedside table and then crawled back into bed with Ian. 

His husband immediately cuddled close to Mickey, taking up their previous position. Mickey thought he’d head right back to sleep, but instead, he entwined their fingers and settled them against his chest. He felt Ian’s lips press to his fingers - grazing over his ring - and he reciprocated by pressing a kiss to the back of Ian’s neck.

“Are you angry?” Ian muttered.

“What?” Mickey tried to pull away to look at Ian’s face, but he held his hands still to his chest and he ended up resting his chin on his shoulder. There was really nowhere else he could go.

“Are you angry?” Ian asked again.

Mickey frowned wishing he could see Ian’s face.

“No. Not at all.”

“I’m--”

“Don’t fucking apologize again, Ian. It’s not your fault.”

Mickey heard Ian sniffle a little and he tightened his hold around him and buried his face in the crock of his neck. He breathed in Ian’s scent - it was always so soothing. 

Mickey knew that he had a thing about smelling him, but what he didn’t know was that he liked Ian’s scent just as much. He smelled sweet like strawberries and cream. There was a hint of woodsiness too and when he exercised, Mickey loved his scent even more. A dirty man wrapped in a saccharine sheen.

“But--”

“Ian, it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.”

Mickey listened to Ian’s steady breathing. He wanted to say something more comforting, but he had never been good at this shit. What was he supposed to say to make Ian understand that it was okay? That it was all in his head.

_ Fuck words... _

“I just - I…” Mickey trailed off.

Ian shifted in his arms. It took Mickey a moment to realize he was moving around to face him. They were barely two inches apart and even through the inky darkness of the room, Mickey could see all of his freckles.

“You what?”

Mickey leaned in and kissed Ian gently, hoping he understood everything he wanted to convey. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but one wrapped in comfort and love for Ian. Mickey wanted to give him his own strength to get through this current low point. A kiss that showed there was hope for their future - a bright future together. 

This wasn’t the end.

It was just a speed bump.

When Mickey pulled away, he focused on Ian’s face. The maudlin vibe had disappeared and was replaced by a shyness.

“It’s okay,” Mickey said. He wanted to add that  _ they’d _ be okay. That they had each other and they’d gotten through worse. They’d come out on the other side of prison, a fugitive status, other men, and his fucking father. A diagnosis they’d known about for years wasn’t their downfall. But the words wouldn’t present themselves.

_ Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell him. _

He focused on Ian’s face instead. He loved the way those tiny freckles and green eyes kept him grounded.

His eyes weren’t as vacant as they’d been this morning. Mickey could still see the cloudy self-doubt. He knew it would take a few days to finally get back to normal. 

After, they’d face an uphill battle with the meds changing, but he was beginning to realize that this wasn’t their past. This wasn’t like prison or the first time. 

Ian wasn’t pushing him away; he wasn’t running away. 

He was here.

Getting through it, one step at a time.

Ian shuffled closer, pressed a closed mouth kiss to his lips and then ducked his head under Mickey’s chin. 

He breathed out a long breath that sounded - to Mickey at least - relaxed.

Like he knew that this would pass too. 

It was a ridiculous position for the two of them to be in since Mickey was so much shorter, but the way Ian was gripping him, told him everything he needed to know.

They weren’t their past selves.

They were much, much better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to read the story! Drop a comment if you'd like! Or a kudo. 
> 
> The next one shot should be out sometime next week.


End file.
